


I’m Lookin Past the Hole in Reality

by FlockOfPigeons



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Angst, Grief/Mourning, Other, oh my god they were roommates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-13 09:55:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29524650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlockOfPigeons/pseuds/FlockOfPigeons
Summary: A collection of 100 word microfics based on Writer’s Digest’s flash fiction prompts, centred around Tyler Violet and Ziwa Mueller’s relationship after Jaylen’s incineration. Will be posted in batches of five prompts per update.
Relationships: Ziwa Mueller/Tyler Violet
Kudos: 1





	I’m Lookin Past the Hole in Reality

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts: Write a story with no dialogue / Take something usual and have it do something unusual / Write a story that incorporates the colour red / Select a kitchen item and write from its perspective / Write a story about a couple

The bass guitar's strings bite at their fingers, but they keep playing nonetheless. Beside them, Tyler Violet's eyes are closed, fingers dancing up and down six string's worth of frets (both physical, Ziwa thinks, and otherwise). They promised Ziwa they wouldn't get hurt. They promised they weren't going anywhere.

They had said over and over that there was nothing to be afraid of. Just a game.

And now Ziwa watches the way their face twitches ever so slightly, the way that barely suppressed fear translates from the words they'll never speak to the sounds that scream out of the amp.

—

Ziwa watches the traffic light blink red under the water, casting red fractals throughout wind-tossed swells. How the power still works they aren't sure, no one is, but no one questions it. It's as if the asking would destroy the precarious balance of it.

Ironic. Ziwa regrets asking Tyler the questions that they did tonight.

They rub a still-rosy cheek as they walk the precariously built wooden sidewalk, bobbing with the waves. Ironic, too, that the only person who could safely touch them would weaponize it. But it wasn't Tyler's fault, was it? They shouldn't have asked. It's on them.

—

To Ortiz's credit, he doesn't ask.

Ziwa knows that he wants to, watches his lips part, close, twist into a frown. The waitress casts a suspicious glance at Ortiz as she sees Ziwa's cheek, and he turns red to match. After she sets down the coffee - plenty of sugar, Ortiz knows their order by heart - she side-eyes the pair from behind the counter.

"It's one in the morning," Ziwa finally says as they swirl the coffee around the mug, if only to break the silence.

"It always is," says Morse. Not bitter. Sad, maybe. Ziwa would've preferred bitterness to pity.

—

For all its destructive potential, a knife is surprisingly fragile.

It's as it's stabbed violently downward into the cutting board that the blade snaps, and metal meets skin mid-sentence, slicing words as easily as it parts flesh. "Don't you dare say her name" becomes "Don't you dare say-" becomes a yelp; becomes another wavering voice asking if Tyler is okay, are they okay, do they need anything?

It's not the knife's fault that it lays on the board, stained red, half a blade embedded upright. It's not Ziwa's fault either, really, but when Tyler says it is, they believe it.

—

"How are you two so... happy?" The pill bottle rattles as Mooney Doctor hears the question, stops, squints through thick-rimmed glasses.

"This is about Violet, isn't it," she states more than asks, and Ziwa flinches like they’ve been hit (muscle memory, maybe, not that they recognizes that at the moment). Ziwa starts to shake their head and Mooney scoffs, but continues anyways, staring almost wistfully at the ceiling, as if the night sky might be painted upon it. Her voice is surprisingly soft.

"Distance," she says. "can work miracles. But it can also tear you apart." A pause. "Choose carefully."


End file.
